“You’re just a sot, man, John,” once said a wife to her tippling husband; “ye ha’e drucken a hoose in your time.”
“Ah, weel, Kate, I think its been a thack ane,” was the reply; “an’ there’s some o’ the stoure in my throat yet.”
“It’s an awful thing that drink,” exclaimed a clergyman, when the barber, who was visibly affected, had drawn blood from his face for the third time.
“Ay,” replied the tonsorial artist, with a wicked leer in his eye, “it mak’s the skin tender.”
Told that whisky was a slow poison; “It maun be awfu’ slow, then,” said an old veteran, “for I’ve toothfu’d an’ toothfu’d awa’ at it this saxty year, an’ I’m aye livin’ yet.”
Neil Gow honestly declared that, when in a certain condition, “it wasna the length o’ the road, but the breadth o’t,” that bothered him. Another, “wha leeward whiles against his will” was taking “a bicker,” on being asked by a passing acquaintance if he was getting home, eloquently replied in the word, “Whiles.”
“You are reeling, Janet,” remarked a country parson, meeting one of his parishioners carrying more sail than ballast, as a preliminary to lecturing her on the evils of her conduct.
“Troth, an’ I canna aye be spinnin’, sir,” returned she, casting anchor in the middle of the road, and leering blandly up into the face of her interrogator.
“You do not seem to catch my meaning clearly, Janet,” continued the divine. “Do you know where drunkards, go?”
“Indeed, they generally gang whaur they get the whisky cheapest and best, sir.”